


Crash Landing

by FawnOfAnxiety (ForeverNerd93)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Gen, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Isu Bullshittery, No Beta I Die Like Cheese, Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27634931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverNerd93/pseuds/FawnOfAnxiety
Summary: He hadn't expected any form of truth from Juno. But, well. She wasn't lying when she said death would be painless.Well. Mostly.~~~~~~He turns his head to look and-"Oh for fucks sake."Wings.
Relationships: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad & Desmond Miles, Ezio Auditore da Firenze/Desmond Miles
Comments: 48
Kudos: 259
Collections: How Dare You Tell Me I Can't Ship These Two?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, this is a thing. The world of Murder Muffins needs more WingFic. So- yeah.  
> I can't promise regular anything. I've got 1 other WIP, University(online full time, it's fun), and a year-old human squish. 
> 
> I know and have outlined where this goes. So, at least there's that. 
> 
> I hope you guys like it and yeah it hasn't been beta read, but I spent... way too long editing it myself so. 
> 
> LET'S DO THIS

He hadn't expected any form of truth from Juno. But, well. She wasn't lying when she said death would be painless.

Well. Mostly. 

It was like touching an electric fence. A flash of fire through his veins starting from the hand he had put on the Eye- 

But- it didn't linger and in what should have been his next heartbeat there was only white. For a while he floated, safely cocooned in soft warmth, he didn’t quite know how he knew this but he did, and slowly he began to feel his body again. It's weird- how do you _forge_ t your own body? 

There’s static under his skin and- _man I didn't miss this_ . But wait, he’s never- why does he know what it-? Eventually, the feeling passes, and as the sensation ripples down his body, he can't help but look down and- _oh, wow, I’m naked_

Well, fuck. Okay then. 

There are ribbons of gold decorating his right arm, from just before his fingers to his elbow. They’re all straight lines and hard angles, something sour twists in his gut at the sight of them. It suddenly becomes nausea when he looks to his left and- _something is missing_ \- That's- that's not okay. With a mental shrug, he rolls with it. It’s what he does, it’s what he’s always done since-

Wait. 

_Who am I?_

Panic claws at his throat even as frustration and confusion press down on his chest and - Fuck- _He can't breathe-_

But wait- oh- with a stuttering inhale he realizes he doesn’t need to breathe that's- 

That's weird, he doesn’t quite know _why_ it’s weird but it is. 

He takes an - _apparently_ \- unnecessary breath and- _oh god what now_ \- there's a weight on his back he wasn’t expecting. His brows furrow as the corners of his mouth turn down and he gives an experimental roll of his shoulders-

Ah, yep, that shouldn't-

Hm. 

He turns his head to look and- 

_"Oh for fucks sake."_

Wings. 

With the layered shades of grey, they look like storm clouds with flashes of lightning in brilliant gold. The tips of the largest look as if they’ve been dipped in ink. Apparently, whatever put him here decided to trade one for another. 

Awesome, that’s _enough_ weird for now. 

So, with a sigh- which prompts another roll of his shoulders because- _what the fuck-_ habitually he lifts his hands to rub at his temples to assuage a headache that isn't there. 

Not thinking about it. 

He decides to walk, because why not? It’s not like there’s anything else to do. Everything is white there’s no discernable up or down, no way to know if there’s even something to walk _on._

_What else could possibly go wrong_? 

Hah. Hah. Ah. 

Famous last words. 

So he steps forward and when he doesn’t fall continues to walk. It still takes a while to get used to. His shoulders and back are- they don’t hurt but it's not quite pleasant. Sensations are muffled and distant as if there’s still a disconnect between him and his body. He stumbles a little- a lot- his center of gravity thrown completely out the window. Running is more difficult than it should be, but not completely unexpected. He eventually figures out how to keep his wings tucked against his back, it feels like flexing a muscle he didn’t know was there until it cramped.

He _absolutely_ did _not_ fall face-first into the weird not ground the first time he tried to sprint.

A wall seems to form out of the nothingness of the white. Faint and made of static but _there_ , it’s something and that’s better than nothing. Curiosity bubbles around his head, little flashes of questions that he gleefully ignores. Coming to the base of the wall, he realizes there seems to be a series of convenient hand and footholds. His head tilts, an outsider would call it almost avian, and slowly he starts to smile. 

He bounces on his toes and then throws himself into climbing this new interesting thing. He’s slow, he feels like he should be faster, but shivers with the childish thrill buzzing under his skin. The difficulty seems to increase in stages. Just as he begins to get the hang of it, it changes and suddenly he’s having to throw himself upward going from ledge to ledge and navigating around entire bare sections and gaps that he _knows_ he can’t make. He startles and almost falls when he reaches the top and realizes he has _no idea_ how long he’d been climbing. 

He feels like he should be out of breath, but isn’t and breathes deep as he hauls himself over the edge. He twitches, realizing he hadn’t been breathing and when his wings shuffle on his back in an unconscious movement- he’d entirely forgotten they were there. He jogs over to the far side of the platform he’s on, his breath hitches- _forgetting to breathe is not okay-_ in surprise at what he finds. 

Below him, there’s an ocean of rooftops, an endless maze of the white nothing winding between them, all of it the same shifting static as the wall he had just climbed. If he focused hard enough he could see harsh differences in the roofs. Stonework and woven wood here, an uneven angled tile there, then a proud dome at the top of a tower. On and on, with each rooftop never in the same pattern or layout twice. 

He laughs, grinning like a kid at an amusement park, and flexes the muscles of his back. The wings lift and flare outward, before settling once more. His unexpected joy eclipses how uneasy the new appendages make him. His eyes dart from rooftop to rooftop, taking in the hazy differences. Gold flickers over some of them, and when he focuses it begins to take shape as ribbons of smoke drifting in a nonexistent breeze. 

It’s the first color he’s seen, he doesn’t think to question it’s appearance and launches himself onto the veritable playground below him. He doesn’t notice the wings on his back stretching out, feathers catching on air and steadying his descent to allow him to land on his feet. It doesn’t take long for him to find his stride, falling into muscle memory he doesn’t bother to question. 

Above all, it feels like coming home. 

He practically flies over the rooftops, using beams and balconies to cross gaps too large to make on his own. It’s euphoric and he doesn’t bother smothering the smile trying to split his face in two. He runs until his heart races in his chest, his lungs screaming, and muscles beginning to shake with exertion.

Clothing suddenly settles over his skin, a hood draped over his head, and he stumbles on his next leap. He yelps when he doesn’t quite make it across the gap. 

He slams into the side, just barely managing to grab the edge of what looks like a stone ledge. Up close buzzing dots of black make his head spin. He takes a moment, glances down even as his arms begin to shake. His eyes widen when he realizes the wall of static he collided with fades into nothing just past his waist. He swings his legs and when they disappear under the static he scrambles to lift himself onto the promised safety of the rooftop. 

“Right, lesson learned. Don’t fall.” Still, he leans over the edge somewhat disappointed when there is nothing but the white. Turning away he doubles over, resting his hands against his knees, wings sagging to bracket him as he slowly regains his breath- _Oh hey, now it’s something I need to do, neat-_ he eyes the leather boots that stop just below his knee, the black cloth of his pants, and the red and grey of the robes that cover him completely. He’s shocked at just how _soft_ the material is, he’s not sure why he expected it to be any different. He straightens up, grabbing one of the tails and rubbing his thumb over where the red and grey meet, his head tilts when the red is even _softer,_ a sash around his waist made of the same material. Only his hands remain free, leather bracers buckled to his forearms from wrist to elbow secure the dark grey of his sleeves. He can’t help the feeling of relief that sweeps through him, knowing most of the gold decorating his left arm is now covered. 

“You were doing well, for a novice.”

He startles, whirling around causing the tails of the robe to flare and his left arm drifts just behind him, his wrist twitching in that same motion as before but, again, nothing happens. He feels the feathers bristle as his wings arch and flare behind him. The hood falls forward, completely covering his eyes, and he pushes it back with a huff.

“Who are you?” He’s uneasy and relieved in turns. Knowing that he is not alone is a balm to the suffocation of pure isolation. The sudden presence of an unknown is not. 

The man, sitting on the wall across the roof, is clad in white, a red sash wide leather belt on his waist, face hidden beneath a beaked hood. There’s a leather bracer strapped to his left arm, the ring finger of his hand is missing. 

“Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. And you are?” 

Altaïr’s head tilts, eerily similar to an eagle staring down its prey, his voice is accented as if there is another language buried beneath the words.

He shifts on his feet, wings folding to tuck against his back, the tension in his muscles ratcheting higher. There’s a strip of cloth between his wings, it grates against the feathers there and he can’t stop the uncomfortable twitching of his shoulders in an attempt to alleviate the itch.

“I don’t uh- I don’t know. I just-” He can’t keep eye contact, though with Altaïr’s face hidden beneath the hood he can’t see the eyes to make contact with, he focuses on the sprawling rooftops. “I woke up this way, I don’t remember anything else.”

His stomach twists with frustration, not knowing who he is or was should have bothered him sooner but, well, the wings on his back are very distracting. His attention snaps back to Altaïr when the man hums, stands and begins walking toward him. He leans back, wary, and unsettled but curious enough to remain still. Altaïr stops a few paces away, far enough to respect his personal space but close enough that he can see more of the man's face as Altaïr tips his head up slightly to get a better look. His eyes briefly flash with a golden sheen, there and gone in an instant, before settling into a more natural brown. 

“You have a striking resemblance to my oldest son. His name was Sef.” Altaïr’s voice is almost a whisper, a rumble of distant thunder. 

“Ah, okay- that’s nice? I’m pretty sure that’s not- that’s not my name.” He focuses on Altaïr’s face, at the faint crease between the man’s eyebrows and the downward turn of his mouth. 

“No, no it’s not. But it’ll have to do for now.” Altaïr turns away, lifting the arm covered in the bracer and gesturing for him to follow. With stumbling steps he follows, confusion wrinkling the lines of his face. 

“What do you mean it’ll do?! It’s not my name, that’s not who I am you can’t just-” His hand reaches out, trying to grab at the back of Altaïr’s robes as they make their way to the far side of the roof. 

“Until you find your name it is what I will call you.” Altaïr stops with one foot on the low wall along the perimeter, and he moves to the side trying to get a look at Altaïr’s face, mouth open to protest yet again only to stop and glare at the ground, the muscles of his jaw clenching in bewildered frustration. 

‘ _I feel like a god damned child, but- but names are important and I can’t remember mine.’_

“Fine- that’s fine. I- it’s better than nothing.” Sef pauses and his eyes widen as he takes a shuffling step backward. “Ah- no offense to your son! This is just- it’s been weird since I woke up in this- whatever this is.” 

Sef just barely catches the edge of what he thinks is a smirk before Altaïr abruptly leaps off the ledge, his arms spread wide as if he too carries wings on his back. He gives a bitten off yell and stumbles forward, leaning over the wall Sef looks down. Altair stands, expectant, in the middle of a red-tiled roof head turned back toward where Sef is watching him with wide eyes. 

Sef wrinkles his nose, annoyed with Altaïr acting like he _knows_ Sef is going to follow. He is, but it’s the principle of the thing. With a long resigned sigh, he follows, arms slightly raised with his wings outstretched to cushion his fall. When the tiles click under his feet Sef looks up and Altaïr is already several roofs over.

“Damn it.” 

It quickly becomes a game, Altaïr ruthlessly sending him into the unforgiving stone or clay tiles any time he gets close enough. However, every time he’s knocked over Altaïr _teaches_ him. How to place his feet, how to twist and move with his opponent's momentum. It’s endless. And with Altaïr running circles around Sef, it _forces_ him to stretch his awareness and focus on where he places and plans to place his feet. He tracks his progress with the slow upward curl of Altaïr’s mouth. He’s openly smiling as he reaches the top of a tower, seconds behind Altaïr who pushes his hood back and turns to face him. 

“Well done, Sef. You learn very quickly.” There’s the pride in his voice, in the hard consonants, a father praising his son. Altaïr walks over to a pile of cushions against a perimeter wall, lowering himself down to sprawl lazily across them, and tips his chin to another pile directly across from him. His eyes close, content, a predator relaxing in its territory.

“Thanks, I think. It feels like I’ve done this before, I just don’t-” Sef makes a gesture, an arc with his hand, silently communicating the words caught in his throat. Clearing his throat he strides over to the offered pile, he stalls when the wings against his back shift. He’d completely forgotten they were there- _a pattern there may be_. Not knowing how to sit down with his new appendages when the tips of the wings brush the backs of his knees. He’s not even sure how the robes work at this back. He decides to sit atop the stonewall, legs stretched out in front of him, hands finding the red sash wound around his waist and fiddling with it. He tips his head back, sightlessly staring at the grey of the stone above him

His muscles throb with exertion, a distraction he clings to in order not to think about how the praise caused warmth to bloom in his chest as ice slid down his spine. He isn’t sure who he is, but he knows he is not this man’s son and he doesn’t like the guilt it brings. Sef takes a steadying breath and looks around, the silence feeling awkward and uncomfortable. He twitches in surprise when he realizes the static has become color. It’s faded, washed out from a sun that doesn’t exist in the White. 

“So uh- How long do you think you've been here?” 

Altaïr hums, “It’s hard to say, there is no way to track time in this place. But. I have been here long enough to see that it expands. Had we gone further, there is nothing but the red roofs. But buildings and winding streets have just started to take shape under them. It is where I found these cushions.” 

Sef looks at him in awe, excitement like static in his veins. 

“Then, why did we stop here?” 

“Patience, novice.” Altaïr opens his eyes and turns his head toward Sef, one side of his mouth curling up, amused. “There isn’t much and when I decide you are ready I will lead you there.” 

Sef’s mouth thins, but, in following him he kinda agreed to this didn’t he? With a huff, he looks away at the horizon of rooftops and endless white. 

“I’ve told you about me, well what little there is of me, but all I know is your name. So, what’s your story.” 

He adjusts his pile of cushions, going from laying flat to a more upright recline, and when he deems himself comfortable. 

He does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, surprise?  
> Have 6k of- I don't even know what this is. Just know, my headcanons exploded all over the place.  
> ElReyCiervo beta'd 2/3rd, the last third got caught up in my impatience.  
> Either way, all mistakes are still 100% mine.  
> Hope ya'll enjoy  
> Happy New Year!

“Altaïr, I can’t-” Sef leans over bracing his hands on his knees gasping for air, his wings drooping at his sides. “Can we call it quits? I can’t feel my legs.” 

“You’re still standing aren’t you?” Altaïr turns back toward his wayward student. They have only just entered what Sef calls,  _ Firenze _ .

For as much as he had mellowed over time- assassins as a whole do not tolerate stagnation well- it had become a regular occurrence to set out across the rooftops when it became apparent Sef had an abundance of energy that needed an outlet. What had started as teaching his winged apprentice how to navigate over the roofs efficiently, became teaching him every skill Altaïr could under the conditions they lived in and the tools he lacked. 

He had neither blade nor staff nor bow, but the improvement with the modified hand-to-hand combat style of the assassins  _ alone _ was astonishing. Sef was a breath of fresh air after so much time alone, that he dared not think about just how long it had been. With his sudden arrival, he now had a way to track the passage of time, a luxury he will never take for granted.

Altaïr had a purpose again in teaching this novice who looked so much like his youngest son, yet was nothing like him. It made sense when this young man- and yes he was young in both body and spirit, a juxtaposition to Altaïr’s young body and old soul- knew nothing of himself or who he had been. A clean slate. He wonders what this boy had done in his previous life to deserve this punishment. His soul being stripped so thoroughly leaving nothing more than bits and pieces of knowledge and know-how with no understanding as to  _ why _ it is known. 

His youngest son had been raised as an assassin, taught to observe, to think, and to question. His patience was learned from the day he could understand such things but even raised as he was, his son was naturally bright and inquisitive and just as adept as his father. That led to a confidence that settled on his son's shoulders and affected every movement and word said. Instilling humility had been one of Malik’s favorite past-times amidst his other responsibilities as Dai.

_ “He is almost as bad as you were, Novice.” _

Sef is wary in a way that speaks of a man burned by those he should have trusted, a look Altaïr knows well. He is observant, quiet, but intelligent. Scarily, so. Latching onto the philosophy of the Creed, what it means, and how it could be twisted. The Tenants and how vital they are, the ethics of what they do. Altaïr has never met another human who was as gifted in the arts of an assassin outside of his own experiences. 

Then again, Sef isn’t quite human in the form his body takes now. 

When there was something he could not seem to grasp; a discovery of knowledge he should not have; learning the aspects of his new body, be they unpleasant or thrilling; he would only hesitate for the briefest of moments. Moving with these revelations like water in a river, he accepts them and moves on with no more than brief complaints. Sef had called it, “rolling with the punches.” 

It is blatantly apparent in instances where Altaïr has only begun to explain and he already  _ knows _ what Altaïr is attempting to teach him. He has, more often than not when it comes to matters of the physical aspects of this life, mentioned that it feels more like remembering than learning.

There will be moments where the boy will beam when praised for something so simple as perfecting his form in combat. But then curl in on himself for a perceived mistake, as if waiting for a blow from his teacher. There was nothing to be done for it here, other than to give the boy the guidance he had seemingly lacked in his prior life. 

“No, I’m creatively sitting.” Sef pushes himself upright with a groan, adjusting his hood as he tucked his wings against his back with a shrug. “I want to know when these things got so heavy.” 

“Mm, you had been able to go farther until recently.” Altaïr walks over, tiles clicking softly under his feet. He comes to a stop at Sef’s shoulder, reaching out and coaxing one wing to extend outward. He wraps his hand around the farthest joint, gently combing the fingers of his free hand through the feathers along the top of the limb. There is nothing he can feel that would suggest something is wrong with the wing itself. He moves one hand to Sef’s back, gently straightening the damp feathers covering the entire expanse of what had once been olive tan skin. The feathers spanned from where they tapered off to a point at the nape of his neck to another tapered point at the small of his back. 

Altaïr  _ still _ does not know what to make of a human, an assassin no less, gifted with an angel's wings and implications there-in. It’s not a thought he likes to entertain often. Despite living in the holy land for most of his life, putting faith into gods seemed anathema to living as an assassin. After all, were they not playing god? Choosing who lived and who died at the end of their blades? 

“They are not heavier, Sef.” He steps away after running his fingers through the largest feathers at the tip one final time, letting it fold and settle against Sef’s back. 

“They feel heavier.” 

“Well then. Let us return, there is no point in pushing you to injury. This time.” With that he takes the nearest roof at a run, launching himself up the washed-out stone wall and vaulting up and onto the faint red tiles. He smiles when he hears Sef follow him with only a few not-quite- whispered curses. 

“Language, novice.”

“For all that is holy, shut up old man.” There's a smile in his voice, fondness in his words. 

Sef has just barely matched Altaïr’s stride when he drops onto his hands, pivots, and lashes out with a leg. He catches Sef in the knees, sending him off of the roof entirely. With a burst of pride, he watches as his novice corrects his uncoordinated fall, briefly dropping over the side, a hand managing to catch the edge. Sef snaps out his wings in time, and in one powerful beat launches himself into the air, his feet making no sound as he gently lands. Storm grey wings remain extended, feathers bristling with indignation. All told, it’s an impressive sight. 

“What the hell, Altaïr!” Sef glares as much as he’s able from under his grey hood, scared mouth twisted down into a frown. 

For a moment, all Altaïr can see is his teenaged son scowling at him for one thing or another. It causes grief to briefly squeeze his heart, knowing he was murdered believing his own father had ordered it. He hopes Sef trusted him enough, in the end, to see through the lie. 

“You must always be aware of your surroundings, novice.” There’s a smile creeping along the edges of his mouth, chasing away the ghosts of the past. 

“More like spiteful assassins.” Sef’s petulant grumbling is whisper-soft, but he settles and follows when Altaïr pushes onward toward the tower that has become home.

Now that he is looking for it, Sef  _ is _ noticeably struggling. His wings droop in uneven intervals, his steps are heavier, and he is gasping for air that would suggest a run several times harder than what they had just completed. Altaïr himself is hardly winded. He errs on the side of caution, letting the rest of the trek pass in silence. He sends his student to scale the tower wall ahead of him, briefly clasping a grey-clad shoulder as Sef passes. The exhaustion is worryingly clear as he watches grey wings sag causing the novice to miss the next handhold with a colorful string of curses. Altaïr throws himself up the tower wall, decades of skill, and experience guiding every movement. 

"I'm alright." Sef's audibly gasping for air, body shaking and his knuckles white with the force of his grip on static-stone, wings jerking in failed attempts to fold them against his back. 

"No, you're not." He maneuvers himself as close as he can manage, getting close enough to rest his hand on the closest wing. 

Worry and guilt- he should have noticed his novice's distress sooner- churn in his stomach. 

"Let them drop, you know how to adjust." He pets as much of the feather-covered limb as he can, trying to coax the trembling muscles to relax. "I will not let you fall, Sef."

"Yeah." He slowly gets his breathing under control. "Okay. Okay." 

Altaïr tracks every movement Sef makes, his own movements secondary to the safety of his student, of his third son. He's only seconds behind as they make it to the top, and isn't surprised when Sef stumbles over to his appropriated pile of cushions, in the center of the tower of course, and promptly falls face-first onto it in an ungainly heap of limbs and feathers.

Altaïr pulls down his hood, walking over to a low table and grabbing a cloth and a horse-hair brush they had discovered at some point. Realizing that these wings required constant  _ care  _ had been a rather unpleasant surprise. The learning curve had been sharp, leaving Sef uncomfortable with each little discovery. 

He settles down at Sef’s hip, guiding the nearest wing up and out of his way to avoid sitting on the delicate feathers. He deftly unties the leather straps holding his robes together, an addition that had been there from that very first meeting so very long ago now, allowing them to fall to the side. Altaïr begins going over the feathers that cover the boy’s back. These have always been the most time consuming to clean, not only are they saturated in sweat but the natural oils from the feathers themselves. 

Sef is quiet throughout the entire process, his breath deep and even in sleep. He’s finishing with the primary flight feathers, the left-wing extended across his lap when Sef suddenly shifts. Altaïr looks up to see a brilliant golden eye peering at him from under the beaked hood. Wholly unnatural, and a far cry from the amber it had been. Altaïr just barely catches the look of pain that sweeps across Sef’s face before he’s arching up with a cry, his right-wing snapping open with an audible crack of displaced air. 

“Sef!” 

He rolls to his feet, obeying his instincts as they scream danger, and moving away as swiftly as his reflexes allow. Later, Altaïr would describe it as golden streaks of lightning crackling down each feather. As beautiful as it is terrifying. But that’s later. He can’t cover his eyes fast enough from the flash of light that blinds him, sending him stumbling back into the nearest perimeter wall. The static-stone digs into his lower back, it’s his decades of skill and reflexes that allow him to snap a hand out and regain his balance. 

When his vision clears, spots dancing along his peripheral, it’s to an eagle perched on the cushions where Sef had just been. Altaïr couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping open in shock, even if he had wanted to. And here he thought, between that Apple, this strange dimension, and the appearance of a winged-boy he had encountered enough of the indescribably strange. 

“Well, that was unnecessarily dramatic.”

For a moment, his mind slams to a halt unable and unwilling to comprehend that an  _ eagle-  _

Its eyes are that same brilliant unnatural gold, almost as if they are glowing, and under its gaze Altaïr feels like prey, keenly missing the weight of his hidden blades. Its head tilts, seeming to consider the assassin before it. The feathers are an exact match to the wings that  _ had  _ adorned Sef’s back, a marble of the darkest to the lightest shades of grey. A template to a storm that could devastate any and everything in its path. Idly, Altaïr notices the crack on one side of its curved beak.

“ _ What are you?”  _ His voice is not as strong as he hoped it would be. He does not notice that his words are in his native Arabic tongue, a sound that he has not heard since he woke up in this strange place, replaced by a language he could not name.  _ When did that happen?? _

The bird shuffles its wings, tilting its head just so. 

“I am and am not the artifact you knew as the Apple. But,” The Eagle responds using Altaïr's language and looks away, taking in the blank nothingness of the horizon. “I am Desmond, the man you have taken to calling Sef, the memories and experiences of a man sacrificed by false gods to save humanity from our own sun. I believe it was one of the many visions you saw in your time with the artifact.” 

Were Altaïr a lesser man, he would be frozen in shock trying to understand the information dropped at his feet by a speaking bird no less. However, Altaïr was a Master Assassin and later the Mentor of the Levantine Brotherhood. Shock is a momentary emotion that is easily pushed aside by the multitude of questions brewing in his thoughts. 

“What happened to Sef’s- your body? Why are you now an eagle?” He doesn’t bother to acknowledge the statement on the time with the apple. If this creature knew, there was no point in it. 

“Isu bullshit, probably.” 

“Isu?”

“Those That Came Before, a very very advanced people that created the pieces of Eden, the Apple is one of many. They created powerful artifacts and weapons in addition to the human race. Originally, humans were essentially designed to be servants. Uh, born and bred to suit whatever they wanted us to do. Sentient cattle, basically.” The eagle- Desmond ducks his head, straightening feathers on his chest before extending his wings and leaping up to perch on the wall. “Mmmm, better. Now-”

There was a hysterical giggle trying to escape the confines of Altaïr’s chest at how utterly ridiculous this entire endeavor had become, a sensation he had not experienced since  _ he _ was a novice, playing pranks on his classmates. 

“Humans rebelled and- well, it was war. The artifacts, like the Apple, were designed to subjugate humanity with absolute mind control and whatnot. But, there was this solar flare, a uh- hm, actually I really don't know how to describe that one. Anyway, it killed most life on earth including most of the Isu. A couple of them created a device to help shield the earth from another solar flare. Which is where we come in.” 

Altaïr takes a moment to move toward a makeshift chair he and Sef had cobbled together some time back, and sank onto it, giving in to the sudden exhaustion settling in his bones. His mind is  _ spinning _ with the information being laid at his feet. He leans forward, shamelessly bracing his elbows against his knees, and begins worrying the palm of his left hand with his thumb, just below the stump of what remained of his ring finger. Desmond remains quiet, gracefully allowing Altaïr to collect his thoughts. He has so, so, so many questions and it feels as if trying to pin one down to start with is akin to grasping at smoke in the wind.

“So, these Isu, created humanity to be their slaves.” His words are heavy, mind coming to conclusions he’s not sure he likes. 

“Yeah.” 

“These Pieces of Eden were designed to keep us enslaved.” Nausea over having  _ used _ such an artifact for so long churns in his gut. “How, then, was I able to use it to divine knowledge? I have seen this enslavement you speak of, I should not have been able to use it in such a fashion.” This seems safer, an explanation for what he questioned in life. 

Why his Men- Rashid ad-din Sinan had betrayed his brothers the way he had. He has no doubt Rashid would have been able to quietly shift the brotherhood to his warped beliefs, one step at a time, with few questioning his mandates. Even fewer having the courage, after all, he had the Eagle of Masyaf at his beck and call with unquestioning loyalty. At least, until the Apple was delivered to him. 

Desmond shifts his weight, talons gripping the not-quite stone, Altaïr glances up from sightlessly staring at his hands and watches as the Eagle ducks his head slightly and seems to hunch forward. The pride that held his head high subsumed by insecurity. How that is accomplished with his current form is a question for much later. He returns his gaze to his hands, giving the other some semblance of privacy. 

“That’s part of the Isu Bullshit.” Desmond releases a croaking trill, laughter. Almost. “One of the things the Isu did was mix their genetics with ours, a sort of scientific experiment I think. These hybrids were some of the humans that survived the Earth being scorched by the Solar Flare. It uh, your Eagle Vision. It- We- You have some of the blood of those hybrids. It’s one of the gifts of that heritage. That and well, being sturdier, stronger, faster, more resilient.” 

  
  


Huh. That  _ does _ explain quite a few things. Living to the age he had was not seen in Masyaf or any of the surrounding cities, among other things surrounding his health. Nevermind what he was able to do before he woke to his Sight, his Eagle Vision, and his accomplishments after mastering the gift.

“We?”

“Yeah, uh, hey do- is food a thing here? The grey is usually- well nothing is  _ normal _ but the fact that there is  _ stuff.  _ And well, I don’t usually talk this much, but you deserve answers. Right now, though, I’m fucking starving.” 

Altaïr stands, deciding to concede for the moment. It is painfully obvious that Desmond is reluctant, and that is being nice about it, to talk about himself. How he knows all of this, how he knows  _ Altaïr _ when Sef- 

He pulls his hood up, stretching his arms above his head, an unnecessary action being in the body he had at the peak of his career as a Master Assassin and is still satisfied when his spine pops in a few places. The tension that had begun to coil between his shoulder blades, the only lasting physical proof of how unnerved this conversation has made him. He turns toward Desmond, taking a moment to truly assess the Eagle where he is perched, facing the direction of where Firenze exists. 

He is large for an eagle, larger than any Altaïr has ever encountered. The feathers of his head are a darker grey, almost black, a solid color where the rest of him is mottled in shades of grey, tapering to a point just before the curved beak. The only exception being flecks of gold in the smallest feathers beneath the eyes. With a start, Altaïr realizes the feathers make it seem as if the bird wears the hood of an assassin. The same hood he had worn as a human. Or well, mostly human. He wonders if it will lighten with time, or if Sef- no he wasn’t Sef, hadn’t been Sef, to begin with. It had only been a placeholder, hadn’t it- Desmond is now stuck in this form. 

“You seem to know the direction, I will guide you to the locations where we discovered the ability to take what had just been shadow before these places came into being. Unless you already know where they are.” 

“Well, yeah. We’ve been mapping out Firenze as it loads, and  _ really _ it’s worse than dial-up, for a long time now. But uh-” Desmond’s focus shifts away from the muted horizon and looks at Altaïr. “I have absolutely no idea if flight is a thing I can  _ do. _ I mean- I’m a bird, I should-” He lifts his wings, extending them in a stretch and displaying the not inconsiderable wingspan. 

Altaïr decides to observe, letting Desmond make his attempts before stepping in. After all, he’s rather invested in this boy’s life and it would be a waste for him to fall into the white between buildings. He suppresses a frown, recognizing the haughty arrogance of his youth creeping into his thoughts. At least this time, until he can process this sudden and drastic change, his ego shouldn’t result in the death of another. He leans against the nearest wall, propping his hip on the edge and crossing his arms. Though, for a man of his age, he thought himself past his childish nonsense. 

Desmond hesitates, making a few attempts in different motions with his wings and hopping along the stone ledge. The sight of what should be an awe-inspiring bird of prey flailing around like a fledgling-  _ a true novice no matter what form he is in-  _ causes Altaïr to toss his head back, his hood to falling back, as he breaks out into loud guffaws of laughter. He doesn’t have to see it to know that Desmond is glaring at him. Altaïr can’t bring himself to care as his sudden spark of amusement fades to a low simmer. 

“Yeah, fuck you too, old man. I don’t see you having to deal with wings on your body and then  _ suddenly becoming a fucking bird. _ ” 

Altaïr huffs, uncrossing his arms and walking over to where Desmond’s feathers bristle in impatience. Decades of handling the birds of Masyaf guide his hand to soothe the feathers down his spine. 

“I spent many years as a novice caring for the birds we used to send and receive messages from the other Bureaus across the Holy Land. I would watch as the mothers taught their young how to fly.” 

He offers his forearm to Desmond, who after a moment stepped up with a shuffle of his wings. 

“Alright cool, so we get down from the tower and I can try from there. Falling into the White just seems like a bad time.” 

Altaïr lifts his arm and winces as Desmond’s talons dig into his skin, heavier than he expected the eagle to be, turning the motion into a rather painful balancing act. He hefts himself onto the ledge, bracing with his free hand as he carefully perches, facing the false city. 

“Most of the mothers were gentle with their fledglings, all of them became loyal and confident birds.” 

He straightens up, wobbling slightly when Desmond flares his wings for balance. 

“Altaïr,  _ no. _ ”

“They became prey to the hawks that owned the skies. Those that survived were the ones forced to take a Leap of Faith.”

  
  


He stretches his arms to either side and lets himself tip forward, falling off of the tower. If this Desmond was as sharp as Sef had been, Altaïr believed he would figure out flight now that he was truly an eagle. It hadn’t taken Sef long to learn the limits of his own wings, to learn that those limits only existed if he believed them to be. There is no wind in this place and there is nothing other than the rapidly approaching washed out tile below to show that he is falling. 

“Fuck you, Altaïr!” Desmond has managed to flip onto his back, his head craned around to look at Altaïr in betrayal. 

He laughs, twisting mid-air and tucking into a roll as he lands. He jogs forward a few steps with the momentum of his fall, lifting his gaze to the white above him he watches as Desmond drifts in wobbly circles above him. 

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!” Desmond remains in the air, becoming more confident with each flap of his wings. “I have talons and I will figure out how to use them.” 

“Given enough time, I believe you could. But do you really want to remain as you are for that long?” He waves a dismissive hand, looking away as he turns in the direction of Firenze. “Regardless of the body you are in, Sef had reached the point in his training where it was time for him to take the Leap.”

When Desmond doesn’t respond Altaïr takes off across the tiles, letting the stilted silence settle between them. That’s alright, he needs a moment to adjust and quietly mourn the death of the inquisitive unburdened soul. He wonders what happened to burn away the boy so eager to learn and understand with a quick mind and a sharp tongue. Sef had a strong sense of right and wrong while accepting the necessity of the grey between them.

His body moves on autopilot, the route practically engraved into his muscles and senses. He is vaguely aware of Desmond, a shadow in a world that does not harbor them, takes comfort in how he does not stray from his side. He learns and adapts as fast as Sef had, it soothes the sharp edges of his grief. It feels as if between one blink and the next they have passed their last documented portion of Firenze, the colors suddenly richer with streets and pathways gradually taking shape. Altaïr almost stumbles, coming to a stop at the edge of a roof corner, and glances down. Taking in the staggering amount of detail of the cobblestone road, he can  _ see _ the debris of human travel, beneath him before focusing on the courtyard. 

Hemmed in on two sides by clusters of smaller homes under the familiar jagged tile roofs, across from him stands one of the largest structures he has come across in his lifetime. It is all hard angles and high arches with the colors of what Altaïr assumes to be a family crest draped over the weather-worn stone and brackets the gated entryway. He doesn’t want to believe how  _ real _ the world around him seemed to be. He very deliberately does not startle when Desmond alights on the partially destroyed wall next to his shoulder, shaking himself to settle any errant feathers before he too focuses on the imposing structure and the colorful banners on the front facade. 

It is only moments after he has settled that Desmond is once more enveloped in that golden lightning. This time Altaïr looks away and brings his arm up to shield his eyes, once was more than enough. 

“Oh cool, I have thumbs again. That’s always nice, never thought I’d miss my  _ thumbs. _ ” 

Incredulous, Altaïr turns to the sight of Desmond, human again with his storm grey wings wearing novice robes, sitting where the eagle had been. He’s staring at his hands, flexing his fingers. Silently, the Mentor lowers himself to sit with his legs hanging off the edge, unsure of just how much more of this insanity he can bear. Decades with the Apple had provided enough fortitude to handle Sef, but even he has his limits. 

“Ah, yeah sorry.” He turns his head just enough to watch Desmond rub a hand over his face under the protection of his grey hood as he shifts his gaze up to the larger building across from them. The wings on his back twitch, aborting the desire to shield himself further. “I’m kinda used to this, the whole Isu Bullshit. I spent months entrenched in it, fuck I  _ died _ because of it. So it’s easier to- ya’ know just roll with it.” 

Altaïr has  _ so _ many questions but his mind has stalled, as it is he’s no longer sure he wants those answers after so much happening in such a short period of time. Luckily, Desmond clears his throat, awkward in a way Sef had not been for a long while. 

“So, yeah that uh- that big stone monstrosity is the Auditore Palazzo.” He adjusts his position on the ledge, wings tucking against his back, and then stills, almost unnaturally so. 

“Giovanni Auditore was a nobleman of an established banking family working alongside the Medici, another family of bankers with a  _ lot _ of sway in the city of Firenze. The partnership allowed the Auditore stability, a place to raise future generations.” Desmond’s tone is stiff and detached as if reciting a long memorized script. He looked like a sculpture, carved from marble the color of smoke and ash, held together by a ribbon of blood. Even when Altaïr had trained his eyes on his hands back at the tower he could hear the minute shift of feathers and talon, the eagle apparently unable to remain still. Sef had suffered from the same restlessness.

He frowns, not understanding why this building is important and lifts his chin to focus on the palazzo.

“The Auditore were a family of Assassins, Giovanni’s father being the last Mentor of the Brotherhood before it drifted apart upon his death. At the time, Giovanni did not have the leadership skills to hold different bureaus together. It then diminished to having territories protected by a Master with a few lower ranked assassins running the guilds within the claimed territory. Taking in recruits wasn’t a priority when the Templars had gone to ground, no one believed them to be much of a threat. It was a mistake that cost Giovanni Auditore and two of his sons their lives.” 

Horror sank like a stone in Altaïr’s gut, Desmond still hadn’t moved and remained fixed on the palazzo, Altaïr couldn’t look away from Desmond.

“Giovanni and his wife Maria had four children: Federico, Ezio, Claudia, and Petruccio. On the twenty-ninth of December in the year fourteen seventy-six, Giovanni Auditore and his two sons Federico and Petruccio were hanged on false charges made by Templars. They made it a spectacle, right here in front of the palazzo.” 

“Federico was twenty-years-old with three years of training under his father. Petruccio was-” Desmond’s voice broke, his head bowing in grief. “ _ He was thirteen. He was sick almost all of the time, the dottore was never able to explain his constant sickness. The night before they were murdered he asked me to collect feathers for him- I never found out why.”  _

Suddenly, grey feathers bristle, posture straightening as wings arched away from his body radiating aggression. In that moment, Desmond was every inch the predator he represented. Altaïr tensed slightly, this harsh swing from narrator to- he did not know what this was. It was yet another person, another soul living within Desmond, speaking through his mouth. His mind understands the words, but what he hears is an entirely alien language. Everything had changed so fast, he was beginning to struggle to keep up with it all. 

_ “I was in the crowd, wearing the robes I am sure were meant for Federico. They were cheering. Cheering for the death of my father, for the death of my innocent brothers. Soaking up the lies from that Templar as truth. I could not get to them in time”  _ His breath hitched, choking on his rage.  _ “I watched as the executioner pulled the lever- I heard their necks snap. Half of my family slaughtered, so the Templars could make a statement."  _

Anything else the soul speaking through Desmond might have said- and Altaïr had an idea of who that might be- was brought to an end when Desmond swayed, curling forward with a pained groan and a sob, grabbing fistfuls of his pant legs. His wings swept forward, a shield from the rest of the world. It was the father that jumped up from the ledge, taking large strides over to his novice. It was the assassin that brought him to a stop just outside striking distance. He was shaking, feathers rustling with the force of it, and Altaïr- Desmond, who had been Sef, was not just a novice for him to train. 

He stepped forward, easily pushing aside decades of assassin instincts. Gently moving one trembling wing to the side he crouched down and placed a hand over Desmond’s white-knuckled fist. He rests his other arm on his knee as feathers brush across his back, enclosing them both in the illusion of safety. 

“Come now Desmond, where is the novice who just took his first Leap of Faith? The man I have trained is stronger than this.” Altaïr keeps his tone gentle even as the words are firm. Desmond is, in truth, far from being a novice having graduated to the rank of Assassin with the Leap they took from the tower. Unconventional as it might have been, it isn’t hard to forgive his impatience under these circumstances. 

He receives a watery laugh in response before Desmond heaves a sigh. 

“To keep a long story short, in my time Templars had created this device that allowed them to see into the past through my heritage. They were looking for other pieces like the apple. I uh- the bleeding effect caused me to see flashes of his memories and for a while, it was hard to remember who I was. It’s- ah it- uh it’s never been that bad.” A harsh exhale and his fist tightens further. “You’d think after dying I’d get some peace from it.” 

“Who was that?” 

“Ezio.” 

Altaïr hums, shifting backward to stand. With his suspicions confirmed, even as even  _ more _ questions pile onto the others, he turns away only to sigh and bring a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. 

“Desmond.” 

He hears the shifting of cloth and wing as Desmond gets up. The city of Firenze is gone, in its stead they stand at the edge of a forest, just behind the tree line, facing the walls of some town. He can feel the sun through the shade of the trees, the warmth of a summer's breeze, and the earth beneath his feet. The world is vibrant and  _ real _ in a way that stuns him. His heart skips when the weight of his robes change. He can feel his armor, the weight of a sword at his hip and the knives tucked into the sash around his waist. He doesn't dare look as reaches for his left forearm, freezing when his fingers brush against the leather wrapping of his hidden blade. 

“Holy fuck. That’s Monteriggioni. The rest of the Auditore fled here after the hanging. Giovanni had- has? Fuck, I don't know. Mario, his brother, is the Lord of the place. Ezio trained here for a year before almost single-handedly eliminated the Templar presence in Italy in just  _ ten years.  _ The entire time he believed he was alone while the assassin's passed him between their guilds, only giving him the most basic instruction on how to  _ be _ an assassin as they fed him information on his targets. Never once bothering to tell him who they were" 

Desmond walks forward, passing Altaïr, grey feathers shining gold, his wings lifted with awe but pauses next to a tree, just shy of the cultivated field beyond the canopy. For the second time in his long life, Altaïr cannot think of what to say, his mind entirely blank.

"Jesus- fuck. I- I can't be seen. _At all_. Damn it- There are no words for how bad this is." He stumbles backward, turning as his wings tucked against his back, and runs an agitated hand over his head. H is brows furrow and his mouth thinning as he looks at Altaïr through the shadow of his white hood. 

Altaïr's eyes widen in shock as, for the second time, he is met with the glowing gold he saw just before Sef became Desmond. Lines are creeping across Desmond's face, shining just as bright as his eyes. 

"Desmond-"

Desmond vanishes in the same way he appeared, with a blinding flash of light he leaves Altaïr alone with only a single grey feather drifting to the ground as proof he existed at all. 


End file.
